


a flower held so dear

by TheJaskiestOfThemAll



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJaskiestOfThemAll/pseuds/TheJaskiestOfThemAll
Summary: Nanny said that it’s a daisy. She's the only one who likes his flower. Nanny once told him a story about two people who both grew flowers and loved each other very much. The problem was, the world didn’t like their love and made sure to keep them apart. Snow storms were made to keep them from seeing each other. Even their flowers were all killed so that they couldn’t find their way back to each other through the storm. The world couldn’t keep them apart for long, because the power of the lovers warmed the weather and made the snow melt. And each year,  when they touched hands for the first time, the first flower of spring appeared.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 16
Kudos: 104
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #002





	a flower held so dear

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ofthesea_4 for being the best Beta ever and for moral support

Jaskier is five. He’s alone in his room and it hurts. He didn’t do his schoolwork correctly today so he got punished. He’s trying not to cry, because he’s a boy and father says that boys don’t cry. It’s hard not to cry; he can already feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. He wipes them away vigorously with the sleeve of his shirt. Jaskier doesn’t want to be punished again. He wants to get things right for once. Father said that he was a ' _reprobate_ '. Jaskier had to go look in the dictionary to see what the word meant. He doesn’t want to be a reprobate! He wants to be good, he wants father to be proud and smile at him.

It’s all because of the stupid flower. The one on his calf, that's always growing and receding. Mother said that he was born with it, but she hadn’t said it in a nice way. Her voice had been hard and cold and she had looked at him with scary eyes.

Jaskier doesn’t understand why they don’t like his flower. It’s the prettiest flower he has ever seen. He thinks it’s prettier than mother’s jewelry and all of father’s knives! It’s got white petals and a yellow center.

Nanny said that it’s a daisy. She's the only one who likes his flower. Nanny once told him a story about two people who both grew flowers and loved each other very much. The problem was, the world didn’t like their love and made sure to keep them apart. Snow storms were made to keep them from seeing each other. Even their flowers were all killed so that they couldn’t find their way back to each other through the storm. The world couldn’t keep them apart for long, because the power of their love warmed the weather and made the snow melt. And each year, when they touched hands for the first time, the first flower of spring appeared.

Nanny had said that’s why some people have flowers on them, so that they can find the one person that loves them most in the world.

“When your flower is on the palm of your hand, you’ll know you’ve found the one. And when you both hold hands for the first time, a flower will grow between you.” She explained. Someday, Jaskier dreamed that he would get away from this place and find his One.

*

Jaskier is eighteen. He’s been on the road as a travelling bard for a few months now. Unfortunately, he hasn’t had much success. The world just doesn’t know a good thing when it sees it; he’s a _fantastic_ thing!

Alright, _maybe_ his songs need just a little tiny bit of refining, but he’s only just starting to learn people’s tastes! Jaskier has always been good at adapting. He’d adapted to the streets after running away from home. He even adapted to Oxenfurt with years of missing knowledge. He’d even adapted having his heart torn out of his chest by that wretched, _talentless_ , thief of a man!

He can do this. If only he had a muse. He often dreams of imaginary muses. Tall women of the north trained from early childhood to hunt mighty bears. Maybe one of them would have gotten cursed and transformed into the very animal she once hunted. And through the power of love, and many hardships, she would change back into her human form. Jaskier would meet her, and she would tell him stories and take him on many adventures. Perhaps they would even fall in love.

Sometimes he dreams of wise, grizzled men that have seen the world many times over. They would sit in his library, drink tea and he would tell Jaskier of all the things he had seen during his younger years.

He even dreams of meeting his One on the road. Another bard perhaps? A merchant? Someone looking for adventure? No matter who they were, he would love them and they would hold hands and smile and flowers would grow.

Hopefully, it wouldn't grow like the mold on the bread that was very kindly given to him as a thanks for his wonderful performance. The _cheerful_ people of Posada clearly didn’t think as highly of his song, as they had all given him a very clear review. What was it again? Oh, yes! Abort yourself. They wouldn't know talent if they got hit in the head with a lute! All of them were _extremely_ rude, except for one. Tall, dark and handsome, just sitting in the corner.

Jaskier gets closer to the stranger and sits down. He sees the white, tangled hair along with the intense, yellow eyes. He knows, without a doubt, without looking, that his flower has grown to his hand. That this brooding stranger is his One.

*

Jaskier is thirty-four. He’s laying in bed next to Geralt, but he can’t sleep. Today, he got confirmation that no matter what he does, even if he's certain that Geralt is his One, he won’t be loved in return. He already knew that, deep down. The first time he helped Geralt bathe and saw that he didn’t have a flower, Jakier knew he would never be Geralt’s. Nevertheless, he still has hope. But now, as he lays in bed next to the man he loves, he’s devastated.

The sorceress is everything Geralt could want. Everything Jaskier isn’t. She’s terribly beautiful. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought that she was an illusion made to guide men to their deaths. She’s intelligent. She had to be to get the upper hand on Geralt and to trap a Djinn, even just for a moment. She’s extremely powerful, and she knows what she wants. She wants Geralt. She’s an avalanche, an eclipse, a forest fire.

She’s not him, and he's not her. Jaskier isn't sure which hurts more.

He can feel tears welling up. He won’t cry. He can’t risk it. Jaskier knows Geralt wouldn’t ask if he was fine but… he can’t take that risk.

At this moment, with the stars above, and the sounds of the night surrounding them, he knows he would break. His heart would shatter, and he'd tell Geralt everything. All of his hopes and fears. All of the feelings he’s kept bottled up inside of his heart for so long. He’d show him the daisy, say ‘ _this is for you, this is a physical representation of my love for you_ ’. Geralt would look at him in disgust and leave. He’d leave, walk off into the night to never be seen again. Jaskier's heart can’t take that chance.

He takes in a shuddered breath, and does not cry.

*

Jaskier is forty. His feet hurt. His back hurts. His _heart_ hurts. He takes another chug of ale, unsure on how many rounds he's had. His heart has just been violently stomped on by the man he loves, by his friend. He’d been thrown aside like trash.

Twenty-two years of his life were spent following a man who had never loved him, never even liked him. Jaskier was barely even tolerated. How fucking _pathetic_. Half of his life went straight down the well.

He doesn’t regret it. He just wishes it could have ended another way. He’d have liked for Geralt to call him his friend, at least once! He’d hoped for a genuine smile, the kind that Geralt gave Yennefer when she wasn’t looking. Soft, with a crinkle on the corner of his eyes. Just once. _Just fucking once_. How could he have not seen the signs? He knew Geralt would never love him, but he was so blinded by his own love that he never saw that Geralt didn’t care, that he never would. Jaskier was just a convenient way not to sleep outside. A source of additional revenue. A fucking useless bard.

His hand itches. It’s all because of the stupid flower. He scratches at it. He wants it off, wants it gone. If he could, he'd tear the flower off. No matter how much pain it would cause him, it couldn’t be worse than the heartache. The flower and Geralt have given him only pain. He scratches harder, until he finally notices the steady stream of blood dripping onto the floor. His hand is numb. Everything is numb, but his heart still _hurts_.

And for the first time in many, _many_ years, he cries.

*

Jaskier is fifty-four. He’s writing on a blackboard. Words fly from his hand like they used to fly from his lips. He doesn’t sing much anymore. The songs leave a bad taste in his mouth. It used to feel so good, standing in front of a crowd, belting those notes, making people laugh and sing and dance. Those days are gone, like dandelion fluff in the wind. He’s content to teach the new generation of bards. He smiles sadly, he was like them once, so excited to see the beauty of the world. Jaskier has seen the world now, and the world has seen him. It had looked at him and said, ' _no, not this one_ ', before beating whatever hope was left in him.

“Jaskier.”

There is a loud screech as the chalk scrapes against the board and breaks.

Jaskier doesn’t dare turn around. He closes his eyes. It can’t be him. It’s been fourteen years since the last time they’ve seen each other. _Fourteen years_ since Geralt threw their friendship away. It still hurts. He knows he shouldn't, but he turns around anyway.

It's shocking, how Geralt looks exactly the same. Messy, white hair with intense, yellow eyes.

“Why are you here?” Jaskier asks in a breathless voice.

“I’m...uh,” Geralt shuffles awkwardly, “I’m here to... apologize. I’m sorry for what I said and did to you.”

“A bit late for an apology, don’t you think,” Jaskier says bitterly. It's more of a statement than a question. He knows he'll accept Geralt’s apology either way.

Geralt clears his throat as if he's nervous. “I’ve been told that... it’s better to apologize later than never and….You don’t have to forgive me, I know I was an asshole to you for-... I never deserved you." Jaskier softens at the apology. Geralt never had been good with words.

“It’s been fourteen years," Jaskier sighs, "I’m done being mad at you. I forgave you a long time ago." Geralt’s eyes seem to light up at the forgiveness he so easily got.

“...thank you." Geralt sighs in relief. He nervously walks towards Jaskier, opens his arms and envelops him in an awkward hug. It’s the best thing Jaskier has felt in a long time. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

For as long as he can remember, this may be the first time Jaskier has ever truly known what it felt like to belong somewhere.

*

Jaskier is sixty. He takes a chance. He’s too old to keep having regrets. Jaskier calmly takes his hand. Geralt slowly intertwines their fingers. A flower grows. Love blooms.

*

Jaskier is eighty-two. He watches as the sun slowly starts to descend in the sky. The past twenty-two years have been the happiest of his life. He’d retired from Oxenfurst with a great pension, and bought a nice place in Toussaint. The weather is always nice, it’s good for his bones. Fifteen years ago, Geralt stopped going away on extended missions and, ten years ago, decided to stay with him full time.

The first thing they did together was plant flowers around their house. Daisies for Geralt and poppies for Jaskier. The flower that represented Jaskier hadn’t appeared on Geralt’s skin until after Jaskier left that bloody mountain. As Jaskier had grown as a person, at the same time, a poppy had grown on Geralt’s body.

Looking back on his life, he’s had a good run. He turns to look at Geralt.

Geralt smiles at him softly, the corner of his eyes crinkle, just like how Jaskier always dreamed they would.

Smiling back, Jaskier closes his eyes softly, and with a final kiss from Geralt, he breathes his last.


End file.
